


reciprocity

by astarisms



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Fluff and Smut, dara's such a prude even the thought of blowjobs makes him blush, his prudishness is cute bc nahri just steamrolls right over it, like goddamn be quiet and let me fuck you, nothing but respect for my banu nahida, we love to see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 01:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20958164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astarisms/pseuds/astarisms
Summary: She doesn’t want to go further if he’s truly opposed to the idea, but by the Most High, she wishes he would let her do this for him. He gives her pleasure so freely and she’s intent to return the favor, even if he does have weird notions of propriety.





	reciprocity

Dara grabs her hand before it can go any further.

“Nahri,” he says, his voice strained, “I can’t let you do this.”

“ _ Let  _ me?” Nahri asks with a note of teasing, leaning over him to arch a brow at his words. “Since when have you ever  _ let me  _ do anything, Afshin?” 

A blush steals onto his face, and he has the decency to look abashed. 

“I didn’t mean– I only–” Dara inhales sharply, unable to finish his thought. While he had been so occupied with what was  _ good _ and  _ decent _ , Nahri’s other hand had slipped quietly into his trousers, and her fingers were soft and cool against his burning flesh. 

_ Suleiman’s eye _ , he thinks, but it’s Nahri’s name that slips out again. 

“I want to do this for you,” Nahri says softly, watching his face. She doesn’t want to go further if he’s truly opposed to the idea, but by the Most High, she wishes he would let her do this for him. He gives her pleasure so freely and she’s intent to return the favor, even if he does have weird notions of propriety. 

He’s been between her thighs countless times. She doesn’t quite understand what makes this so different in his mind, only that it’s Dara and he’s always been rather prudish, at least when it comes to his own pleasure. 

When it came to hers, he was more open to exploration, and the things he could do with his tongue were wicked in a way she had never expected from him. But though some of her suggestions gave him pause, he always conceded and carried them out eagerly, if only to watch her come apart again and again. 

She sees the hesitation on his face, and leans forward until her lips graze his ear, pulling her hand back to splay her fingers over his ribs. He shudders underneath her, the grip he has on her thighs tightening.

“Dara,” she sighs, and relishes the way he trembles. “You have no idea how much pleasure I would get out of yours.” Truly, he has never been able to refuse her anything. She thinks this is perhaps one of the easiest requests she’s ever made, for what man would turn away his own pleasure? But Dara is not most men, and she doesn’t have to pull back to see the conflict in those bright eyes — she feels it plenty in the tension he holds himself with.

But then he loosens, if only just so, and she presses a series of kisses across his jaw to coax him along further. His fingers flex on her skin and his throat bobs, and Nahri knows she has won. She pulls back, to gauge his expression with her own eyes, and smiles at the familiar mix of exasperation and resignation and longing written into his face. It makes her heart skip a beat, warmth pooling low in her belly. 

She presses her lips chastely to his, biting back another grin at the way his eyes brighten with desire. Oh, but she doesn’t think she will ever tire of that look, the way he gazes at her like a man seeing the sun for the first time, freed from the shackles that kept him in the dark. She smoothes a dark curl away from his face, laying her hand on his cheek and kissing him again, unable to help herself.

She is nearly consumed by him when he presses his scalding fingers against her back to urge her closer, rising to deepen the kiss. It is only with some effort that she remembers herself and pulls away with a click of her tongue, pushing him back flat against the bed. 

“Ya, Dara,” she chides with that same teasing lilt to her voice, eagerly drinking in the way his brows furrow and his lips part when she reaches back down to cover his length with her hand. “It’s my turn.”

He only nods, and returns his hand to her thigh, his expression pinched. Nahri almost laughs, but presses another kiss to his lips instead, then his chin, then his throat. She slips her hand back into his trousers, taking the hot, hard flesh between her fingers. Dara makes a strangled sound when she begins stroking him from base to tip, his hips lifting into her touch.

Her tongue darts out to tease the hollow of his throat, sweeping her thumb over the seeping head. He tenses, and she hears him swallow, hears the rush of blood through his veins and the quickening of his heart. Creator, but having him like this is addictive in its own right. How thrilling it is, to know that it’s her touch that has him so helpless beneath her. 

How powerful she feels, to know that she needs no tricks or magic to make this warrior a puddle at her feet, that herself alone is enough. 

She continues down his chest, shivering as his hands skim up her sides, slipping underneath her tunic the lower she shifts. There’s a reverence with which he touches her that always makes her breath catch, the weight of all he feels for her condensed into the featherlight press of his fingertips against her skin, made all the more intense by the fact that his touch carries an undercurrent that makes her body hum in response, one that resonates in the both of them. 

_ Nahid magic forged these places, and it will react most powerfully to those of your bloodline.  _

The words, spoken in reference to the palace and her hospital, come back to her unbidden, sending shivers down her spine as the muscles of his stomach tense and ripple under her lips. The finely crafted planes of his body, the heat of him, the life that runs through him is all by her design. 

Once, she had been horrified at the idea of Nahids crafting new bodies to house the souls of slaves. Young and naive and ignorant of the extent of what she could do, it had seemed a daunting and impossible task.

But his body is real and very much alive beneath her, no longer an unfinished man of clay but complete and whole and  _ hers _ , for as long as he would have her. 

He sucks in a sharp breath when she kisses over his navel, and her eyes dart up to watch his face. That reaction was no product of magic, and the open desire in his expression sets her blood on fire. Ya Allah, the things she wanted to do to him, if only to see him give her that look again, to know that she was the cause of it. 

She pulls away from him, adjusting herself so she’s between his thighs instead of astride them now, sweeping her hair back over her shoulder. She feels his gaze settle like a brand on her skin, even hotter than his hands, which slip from beneath her tunic when she moves. 

Releasing him with one last, slow stroke drags a hiss from between his teeth, and she feels her own heart pick up in anticipation. She curls her fingers around the waistband of his trousers, rolling them down until he’s bared to her. She wets her lips, situating herself between his legs, and reaches for him again.

“Nahri,” he says roughly, grabbing her hand before she can. She looks up, surprised, and his eyes are bright, his brows furrowed in a blend of wild longing and uncertainty. “I just…” He stops, clears his throat, his fingers trembling upon her wrist. “Are you sure? I… I wouldn’t want you to do anything—”

She leans forward before he can finish, bracing her other arm against his thigh so she can drag her tongue along the length of him. His grip on her loosens, and he falls back, his breath shuddering out of him. Nahri grins, wrapping her fingers around him again and pulling him back towards her.

“I’m sure,” she says, and repeats the motion, ending with a flick of her tongue against the head. Dara’s jaw is clenched so tightly she thinks she can hear his teeth grind, and she sees the dusting of pink on his cheeks. She takes him between her lips, and he groans quietly, one hand fisting in the sheets and the other coming up to cover his face. Nahri starts slowly, taking only a little more of him into her mouth with every descent, watching him carefully.

He curses under his breath, and she takes that as an encouragement to be a little less cautious and a lot more enthusiastic. She uses her hand to stroke what she can’t fit, and her tongue to aid her in pleasuring what she can. She sucks lightly on the head every time she rises, teasing the tip with her tongue, and the rigid tension he holds himself with dissolves, replaced with one she knows all too well, the kind that takes hold when you’re rushing to an unknown edge and unable to stop yourself from falling over. 

_ Good _ , she thinks, smiling to herself, while Dara has lost all semblances of coherent thought and can focus only on the feel of her, her lips and tongue and hands and hair all settled between his thighs and thoroughly taking him apart.

The hand curled in the sheets finds purchase in her hair instead, and Nahri’s stomach flutters in satisfaction. That she could get him to relinquish even that little bit of control was promising, and she pushes his leg open more, feeling his thickly muscled thigh tense and relax again under her touch, more evidence of his unraveling. 

She watches the uneven rise and fall of his chest, hears the ragged breaths he drags through his teeth, sees the bits of ash that bead on his temples through his fingers, and it’s nearly enough to cause her own undoing. 

But Dara gets there first, his fingers tightening urgently in her hair, choking out a warning. Nahri meets his eyes, and it is her absolute pleasure to have their positions reversed for once, to watch him fall apart from her position between his thighs. He comes with a sound that’s ragged and desperate and sits heavy in the pit of her stomach, warming her from the inside out, and she ignores his warning, the salt of him coating her tongue. 

He curses again, and she feels his eyes once more, that weighted gaze that sets her skin on fire. 

She pulls away from him finally, sitting up between his legs and licking the corners of her lips. He’s looking at her with an expression that conveys too many things for her to place before he’s taking her face between his hands with trembling fingers and kissing her.

Nahri laughs, startled and delighted, resting her hands on top of his. 

“You impossible woman,” he murmurs against her mouth, with an awe that belies his words. She grins into his kiss, leaning in to him. 

“Impossible is my specialty,” she says cheekily, and then leans out of his kiss, resting her forehead against his. “But this was far from it.” 

There’s still some embarrassment in his face, though it’s mostly overshadowed by wonder and that deep, post-ecstatic satisfaction. She pulls one of his hands from hers, kissing his knuckles as he tucks her wild hair tenderly behind her ear. She has no doubt that the next time she tried this, it wouldn’t be half as difficult, and she feels giddy at the prospect.

For a beat, though, they just stare at each other, sharing the moment. Then Nahri pushes him back and tucks herself into his chest. He opens his mouth to protest, and Nahri covers it with her hand.

“No. This was for you,” she says sternly. “And now we’re going to cuddle. I want no  _ if _ s,  _ and _ s, or  _ but _ s out of you, Afshin.”

He huffs a laugh that’s equal parts amused and disbelieving, but she doesn’t remove her hand until he nods. She rests her head against his shoulder, and takes his hand, twining their fingers together over his stomach. He presses his lips to hair, and Nahri sighs, relaxing.

Though, of course, the peace doesn’t last for long. Despite her instructions, Dara’s sense of honor and duty wouldn’t let him go without returning the favor. He flips her onto her back, a wicked light in his eyes, and she purses her lips in a failing effort to convey her disapproval. 

“What did I say?” she asks, though her body betrays her, her head falling back to accept the kisses he places on her throat. “You’re very bad at following orders, Afshin.”

Dara laughs, a low sound that sends a rush of warmth straight to her core.

“I have since learned to stop following orders blindly, Banu Nahida,” he says solemnly, nudging her chin up further with his nose, “and to only follow the ones I deem good and just. Your order, unfortunately, was neither.”

Nahri tangles her fingers in his hair and tugs his head up to meet his eyes.

“Then I expect you to be willing to have the same treatment inflicted upon you.” 

He swallows thickly, and Nahri watches as the last vestiges of his unease flicker and fade, his eyes going molten again. His breath shudders.

“I think I could live with that,” he says quietly, and Nahri, satisfied enough with her victory that she can allow him his, pulls him down to her mouth again.


End file.
